


All's Fair in Love and Hate

by blackmetaldahlia



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Punisher (Comics), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Dimension Travel, Hate Sex, M/M, Matt Murderdock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 05:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmetaldahlia/pseuds/blackmetaldahlia
Summary: “You’re the one with the sword, here,” Frank points out before mentally punching himself in the face eight times in a row. But not-Murdock just shrugs.“You’ve got me there. Now tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”Because you don’t kill peoplewas apparently not going to work.





	All's Fair in Love and Hate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dawittiest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawittiest/gifts).



Frank has a bad track record when it comes to The Hague.

The first time his plans were _supposed_ to unfold at The Hague, he’d gotten food poisoning. Too much raw herring. The second time, there was a freak hot air balloon accident and his mark had perished in a fiery explosion that would have been comical had it not also taken out three sailboats, a jetski, and a raw herring stand. This was his third attempt. Hopefully, the charm.

He had gone with a classic: air ducts. Everyone was so worried about mutants who could walk through walls or the latest Russian teleporting experiments that they forgot that sometimes even your average everyday human could still just…sneak in. He wasn’t going to push his luck, though: one gun, one silencer, one magazine, take the shot and bail. His shoulder holster keeping everything covert under his nicest long black coat. Hell, he’d even dabbed concealer over a nasty cheekbone bruise.

And then Ghost Rider, of all people, ruins everything.

He’s just spotted his mark – a Norwegian lawyer who’d taken a few too many favors from an interested party whose name started with “Y” and rhymed with “Nakuza” – when the idiot with the flaming skull drives his motorcycle through a large, gorgeous window, sending glass raining down onto the ground and the hundred or so people meandering the halls screaming their goddamn heads off.

The semi-headless idiot in question also starts screaming as he dismounts his motorcycle, which he had somehow managed not to crash. Something about demons and God and hell, absolute garbage. He’s gotten drinks with Johnny Blaze a couple times; their paths occasionally crossed given that Frank’s targets were usually reprehensible people and Blaze’s were sinners, or something like that. The man’s pretty companionable when his head has skin and isn’t on fire.

Frank makes a pact with himself that he’s never hanging out with Johnny Blaze again if his _stunt_ – his screams are about a Mephisto and a Zadkiel – wrecks Frank’s third Hague assassination attempt.

If he can use the glass to his advantage and maybe _stab_ his mark to death, make it look like an accident –

And then some iteration of the Avengers joins the fray. Frank honestly isn’t sure who’s even on them any more, he swears every dumbass in a mask these days seems to have a card. Maybe they’ve been including them in cereal boxes.

This one, at least, includes Iron Man, a figure who is _clearly_ Thor but is also _clearly_ a woman, a younger looking woman with wings, and Doctor Strange, who has some sort of light around his hands and looks to be concentrating.

Frank gets the feeling that this is somehow Strange’s fault, especially when Ghost Rider pauses his insane ranting and points at Strange before chanting in some hellish language.

_Fuck this_ , Frank thinks, and then he bends down and picks up a long piece of broken glass. His mark is cowering under a side table that doesn’t really cover him at all, and is flinching every time the overturned vase on top of the side table drips water onto his suit jacket. He cautiously makes his way over to the man, who is so transfixed on the superhero hubbub that he doesn’t even realize that Frank is coming.

And then the floor drops out from under Frank with a sound kind of like a popping balloon, and he’s falling. His last thought is _this is absolutely Strange’s fault._

\---

 

The Hague is still completely whole. Frank wakes up in the ladies’ room, which isn’t the worst place he’s ever woken up. He’s even sitting on a toilet, which is nice. A host of options run through Frank’s mind – time travel? Alternate reality? The whole ordeal as some sort of raw herring-fueled fever dream?

Inventory – his gun, his clothes, his forged papers. His plane ticket. A box of tic tacs. A receipt for some raw herring, which he should really just stop eating. It’s never gone well for him. Maybe _that’s_ what’s been causing his bad luck streak. There was thus far a 1:1 correlation.

He leaves the ladies’ room as subtly as he can, which turns out to be subtle enough. It’s a man coming out of the mens’ room that catches his attention, though.

A man with bright red hair and a reflective white cane.

_Murdock?_

The man pauses for just a moment before continuing on his way, but Frank knows – he had heard Frank’s heart or smelled his teleportation dust or _something._

He falls into step fifteen paces behind Murdock, but…something isn’t quite right. Murdock is holding himself differently, his hair is slightly more styled, his suit somehow _sharper_. And…

Frank’s harbored an idiotic, suicidal hate-crush on Matthew Michael Murdock, resident altar boy, for long enough to realize that this Murdock’s ass is just a _little bit_ bigger. He’s certain of it. This isn’t quite his Murdock. Alternate reality then. His heart sinks, because that means that something is very wrong.

Murdock turns into a room and Frank, unthinkingly, follows. Only to find himself at…sword-point?

“Who _are_ you?” Not-Murdock asks, and Frank realizes that his _cane_ was a sword.

Definitely not his Murdock then.

It takes Frank only a fraction of a second to weigh his options:

Lie-and-play-dumb: Bad option. This Murdock likely also a lie detector. With a sword.

Don’t-play-dumb-but-lie-about-the-events-of-this-morning: Not _good_. Lots of storylines to keep straight. This Murdock has a _sword._

Tell-as-much-truth-as-you-can-and-hope-for-the-best: It _is_ Murdock, it’s not like his life is at risk. He’ll probably be willing to help. Even though this Murdock has a goddamn _sword._

“My name is Frank Castle,” Frank says slowly as he raises his arms above his head. “I _think_ I may be in an…alternate reality? Does that sound completely bullshit?”

“Keep talking,” Not-Murdock says softly, lining his goddamn _sword_ up closer with Frank’s jugular.

“You’re Matt Murdock, I assume? I know a Matt Murdock, but he doesn’t use a sword. Why do you have a sword?”

“To _kill people with_ , obviously,” Not-Murdock hisses, pressing in just a fraction with the blade to draw a slight line of blood, and Frank’s stomach drops as he realizes that this Murdock isn’t just _his_ Murdock with a different weapon and a somehow even nicer ass.

“Definitely an alternate reality, then,” Frank says solemnly. “Listen, I need to find your universe’s Doctor Strange or whatever Supreme Poobah handles hocus pocus crap and get back to _my_ reality. I was in the middle of something important.”

Murdock sniffs, but lowers his blade just a touch. “If you go for your gun, I will separate your head from your shoulders, and that’s a promise. Now tell me why I should believe you.”

Frank lets out a long breath and lowers his arms. “If you’re anything like the Murdock I know, you can hear my heartbeat and smell my hormones or something. You know if I’m lying.”

“If you’re anything like the Frank Castle _I_ know, you’re a maniac with an overinflated sense of justice and a tendency to play judge, jury, executioner, firing squad, electric chair button-pusher, and guillotine operator. Nothing you’ve said has changed my opinion, especially the sheer _size_ of your magazine.” He flicks his sword down towards Frank’s belt, and then back up casually to his chest. “Compensating for something?”

Oh god, this Murdock’s a _flirt_. In an insulting way. Great.

“You’re the one with the sword, here,” Frank points out before mentally punching himself in the face eight times in a row. But not-Murdock just shrugs.

“You’ve got me there. Now tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

_Because you don’t kill people_ was apparently not going to work. He thinks, and thinks, and _thinks_ , and not-Murdock can probably smell the smoke coming out of his brain. “Because you look young. What are you, thirty?”

“Twenty-nine,” not-Murdock says lightly.

“Here’s what I know about _my_ Murdock. Radioactive waste in an accident when you were little. Blinded you but enhanced your other senses. You trained with an asshole named Stick, who was involved with a bunch of Hand assassins. Your worst enemy is the Kingpin, Wilson Fisk.”

The sword – goddamn _sword_ – is back at his throat, and Murdock is leaning in close. This one isn’t great about pretending to be looking at Frank’s face – what if he doesn’t _need_ to pretend to be sighted as Daredevil? “ _What_ do you think you know about Wilson Fisk?”

“He’s a big fat guy with a lot of guns who runs most of the crime rings in New York City,” Frank says calmly.

“Ran,” not-Murdock corrects, a single orange eyebrow quirking over the top of his red lenses.

“Maybe,” Frank says calmly. “If yours is anything like mine, he’s got a nasty habit of looking, acting, and smelling dead only to bust back on the scene at the worst possible moment.”

Not-Murdock nods again, slowly. “I see. How does this convince me to keep you alive?”

The moment Frank even _thinks_ about going for his gun and hoping for the best, the sword is back in a blood-drawing position. Shit, maybe this Murdock is genuinely psychic as well.

“I get the feeling that _my_ universe is about ten years ahead of yours. We’ve got some differences, but I can give you information that might be incredibly useful to you.” Though, if this Murdock is a cold-blooded killer…

Not-Murdock leans back in a way that makes Frank think of a snake getting ready to strike. He tenses and tries not to think about how odd it is to fear for his life at the hands of _Murdock_. Well, not-Murdock. But still. God, the face, the hair, the _everything._ The smarmy attitude.

“Fine,” Not-Murdock says. He steps back and lowers his sword completely, and with the press of a button it’s back to an unassuming white cane. “You live. But I don’t know anything about a Doctor…Strange? You said a…Supreme Poobah?”

“It might be ‘Sorcerer Supreme,’” Frank admits. “I never really paid attention, his whole magic deal isn’t especially relevant to my interests.”

“I don’t know a Sorcerer Supreme,” not-Murdock says. He rolls his shoulders back and turns his head slightly to the side, a painfully familiar gesture. “I’m needed. I’ll meet you at the Escher Museum in a few hours. Don’t draw any attention to yourself.”

“Right,” Frank says, unsure whether the feeling in his guts is relief or the sort of anxiety that made him curl into a ball and wish to disappear like when he had first gotten back from deployment. “And you’ll be…?”

Not-Murdock straightens his tie and grins at Frank, and that smile makes him look like something completely different from the straight(ish)-laced lawyer that Frank knew and loved.

“I’m going to kill a man.”

\---

The Escher Museum is neat and all, but there’s only so long Frank can look at fish turning into birds before he starts getting _itchy_.

Thankfully not-Murdock taps his shoulder just as he’s considering going to find a place that sells raw herring, and Frank even manages not to jump. Christ, he’s quiet.

“We’re leaving. Do you have papers? They’re not necessary, but it will make this simpler.”

“Yeah. Forged, but it should be fine. They are in my reality.” Frank pauses, wondering. Not-Murdock looks calm. Perfectly at ease. _His_ Murdock can smell blood a block away on garbage day – how does this Murdock handle the smell of death that he caused? “Did it, ah, go well?”

“As well as it always does,” not-Murdock says with a wave of his hand. “I’ve done the audio tour here a dozen times now, if there’s something that especially interests you I can tell you anything you’d like to know about it. Otherwise, we can depart.”

Frank looks around, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he should just camp out in the Hague and hope that Dr. Nutjob is working on pulling him back into his home reality.

Somehow, he doubts it.

“Let’s go.”

\---

“Franklin _Nelson?_ ” Murdock asks on the plane – a ritzy thing where he and Frank are first class and someone put a drink in Frank’s hand before he had even gotten to survey every possible exit point. “Is my _partner_?”

“Yeah, you two are goddamn inseparable. I think you two are running around a dozen bullets taken for each other? Some metaphorical. Most literal.” Frank had been there the first time his Murdock’s identity had been revealed. Nelson hadn’t taken it well.

“He’s the DA here. Went to Columbia, clerked for Justice Kagan. I met him while I was clerking for Justice Alito – nice guy, total pushover, but stands up for his principles. But you said we’re…private criminal defense? That doesn’t sound like him. He was public interest all the way down. Rare breed of lawyer, anymore.” Not-Murdock seems troubled by this, as if the fact that his universe’s Nelson was a private criminal defense attorney made less sense than the existence of Slim Jims, which somehow didn’t exist in this reality.

Of course, that meant that this Murdock had never had Slim Jims, so he didn’t know what a travesty it was that they didn’t exist. Maybe Frank could invent Slim Jims here.

“You seem to take a very hippie approach to it – defending the truly innocent, helping those the system isn’t designed to help, shit like that.” Bless his mouth for staying on track even when his brain was decidedly _not_.

Not-Murdock relaxes somewhat, and swirls his whisky in his glass. “So _interesting._ ”

\---

This universe’s Murdock gets him set up with a fully furnished shoebox apartment in Manhattan like it’s _nothing_. “It’s nothing,” not-Murdock confirms. “I’m used to hosting an…interesting crowd. And I have a key, not that I need it.”

“Mind if I ask how you fund all this?” Frank grunts as he tosses his duffel bag of hastily thrifted clothing onto the full size bed.

“Yes,” not-Murdock says almost absently. “In the meantime, I’ve gotten you an untraceable phone – I’m in under Mikey, it’s my personal cell. There’s a couple grand, cash, in the bathroom if you peel up the caulk on the bottom edge of the bathroom – the keypad code is 3278465. See about finding your warlock or whatever, I’ll ask my people. Keep me as updated as I deem reasonable, which I’m sure you’ll figure out soon enough. If nothing turns up…you may still be useful to me.”

“You talk a lot more than my Murdock,” Frank says as he eyes the somewhat neglected crown molding. “This place bugged?”

“Obviously,” not-Murdock snorts. “Only audio, though,” he says with a grin as he taps his glasses. “No peeping toms here. I like the way you say _your_ Murdock, though.”

There’s _just_ enough sleaze in the undertone that Frank can’t come back with a reply before Murdock – _not-_ Murdock – has turned on his heel and left the apartment.

\---

Technically, Frank isn’t working for not-Murdock. He keeps telling himself this. In the line at Arby’s. On the subway. While waving his gun in some random jackoff’s face.

He could just disappear at any time. Though not-Murdock probably had some sort of tracker implanted under Frank’s skin while they were on the plane. And he’d gotten a painfully polite text once he tore apart the apartment and found the incredibly high-tech microphone in a false panel in a cupboard: _Please don’t; they’re quite expensive._

Who uses semicolons in texts?

Besides, what he’s doing is entirely in his own interest. Getting back to his reality, where things made sense, and he wasn’t a better _person_ than Matthew Michael goddamn Murdock.

The Avengers here aren’t at all like his Avengers. They’re concerned with diplomacy more than anything else, and only two of them even have powers. There’s a Spider-Man at least, though she’s about twelve and seems to be followed around by a small, pig-like creature. That can talk. There are cults, of course, but none of them seem to lead towards something resembling the vaguely racist magical organization that Strange was president of.

In fact, Dr. Stephen Strange is an active oncologist in this world, not a former neurosurgeon. So that isn’t a good sign. He has to find whoever was the Sorcerer Supreme in _this_ world, if that position even exists here. And New York’s seedy underbelly isn’t the best resource for that information, something becoming painfully obvious.

It _is_ useful for some information, and that is that this Murdock has a _reputation_. Fisk’s right-hand man. Interesting.

A few folks ramble on about red ninjas as well, but Frank had gotten more than enough of that shit with the Shadowland debacle, and he instead files that information away for later, in case he needs blackmail.

And speak of the devil, his phone vibrates. _Any luck?_

_No_ , he types back, and then adds a frowning emoji. _:(_

Not-Murdock sends one back instantly, and follows it with _I have some things. You’ll want to see them. Where are you? I’ll send a car._

_Hell’s Kitchen, near the gym. My Murdock never bothered with punctuating texts._

A moment later, his phone buzzes again.

_:(_

\---

“So you’re telling me the entire magical order was _absorbed_ into the Hand?”

“Nearly five hundred years ago, yes. The strongest Hand warriors have some magic, a few even approaching what you describe with the light shows and flying, but I’ve heard little on cross-dimensional travel. I know it’s possible – the amount of Spider-twerps I’ve seen in the past few months confirms that – but it doesn’t seem tied to magic here.” Not-Murdock is standing with his hands clasped around his cane as Frank pores over hundreds of pictures.

Old, dilapidated temples. Young monks with symbols tattooed on their foreheads. Some sort of writing on one of the temple walls, compared with a more recent Hand scroll. A grainy black and white photo of a man in robes levitating over a still pond. A bald man, impossibly old, impaled on a jet black spear.

“Well, fuck. Any shot you know any of these Hand heavy-hitters?”

Not-Murdock’s lips thin _just_ enough. Frank wonders what he’s detected in Frank’s tone. “Why would I have anything to do with the Hand?”

“Well,” Frank says, drawing it out for several long seconds. “In my reality, Matt Murdock wound up possessed by some sort of Hand demon, put most of midtown under ninja martial law, and crowned himself the Kingpin. And every blind person I’ve ever met has been somehow connected to the Hand, which I now realize sounds vaguely discriminatory but – “

“Yes, I’m acquainted with the Hand,” not-Murdock interrupts with a sigh. “We have…history. The _heavy-hitters_ won’t be much use to you. I already know this. You’re stranded, Frank.”

The pit in Frank’s stomach opens impossibly wide and takes his stomach with it, as well as most of his intestines and at least one kidney. He keeps breathing only because he’s trained himself to keep going even when it really should be impossible. Not-Murdock doesn’t seem to notice, though of course he has. Skin temperature. Stress hormones. Something like that.

“Of course, there’s still the possibility that this Doctor Strange will reach through from _his_ side,” which, well. Not likely. At all. “But as I understand it, you’re trapped. And I’m sorry for that. It must be difficult for you.”

He sounds gently. Almost sincere. But that _almost_ has Frank dialed in when not-Murdock –

It’s just Murdock now. He’s not getting the altar boy back.

When _Murdock_ launches into the next part of the presentation. The job offer.

“I could make it easier. You’re an accomplished hitman. You have some amount of knowledge that nobody else in this universe has. You have no family here, no friends. A man with your name and I’m guessing a similar face is now _dead_ after one of his mad rampages went south on my command. He won’t be an issue. I can give you a life here.”

“A life under your heel?” Frank manages to ask without his voice breaking. He hates this Murdock _so_ much.

“Any life you have here would be under my heel, whether you actually work for me or not. I know it’s come up in some of your little interrogation sessions with drug mules and mob dunces, but I doubt they got the extent of my influence across – so long as you act as a criminal, you will feel the pressure of my heel.”

“And if I move to goddamn Trinidad and open a business selling puka shell necklaces to drunk tourists?”

“Arguably still an unconscionable contract and illegal, but…I’d let you go. I’m not entirely heartless. You’ve lost a lot. This _is_ a rather unique opportunity to change your life’s trajectory. If you’d like to take this chance to live out your childhood dream of hawking shell necklaces, I won’t stop you. But I think you know that your talents can be put to better use.”

God. A job offer from Murdock. Not even as a bodyguard or some bullshit like that. As a hitman.

“And who would I be killing, if I’m your lapdog?”

Murdock doesn’t even bother trying to make it sound like _lapdog_ is inaccurate. “Whoever I need killed that I can’t get to myself. Which was, until recently, _nobody_. Unfortunately for my sword, I’m incredibly busy now. I can’t just arrange a pass at a conference in the Hague every time a Yakuza drone has been getting a bit too uppity. If it helps, they’re usually criminals. Mob bosses. Certain corrupt politicians. Drug lords.”

Christ. “Which corrupt politicians am I _not_ killing?”

Murdock nearly _giggles_. “Why, the one’s that I’ve corrupted. You still haven’t put it together, have you? I thought your little Hand demon comment may have been a joke, but – Castle, _I’m the Kingpin, here_.”

A few things click into place as Frank pulls out his gun and fires before the rest of his brain can reevaluate, but Murdock has already _moved_ , and that sword is back at Frank’s throat.

“Not an option, I’m afraid,” Murdock hisses. “Now, I still would really rather not kill you – though it would be quite possibly the easiest murder ever. No family, no real documentation, no connections to this world at all. But it would be a waste.”

Frank prepares to throw Murdock – he may get a nasty slice on his arm in the process but if he moves fast enough, his heavy leather coat should take the brunt of the damage –

And the blade moves close enough that Frank is once again bleeding. Heat spills onto the front of his shirt. _“You can’t move fast enough to catch me off guard,_ ” Murdock whispers, so close to Frank’s ear that his arm hair stands on end.

Frank relaxes his muscles and tries to think through this, but it’s impossible. There’s no out.

He’s trapped. He could die, and it wouldn’t matter at all. No way in hell is Strange looking for him. He could try and rebuild a life, maybe selling necklaces, maybe inventing Slim Jims - but he’d always be on edge, waiting for Murdock to change his mind.

Things were so much easier when he could rely on Murdock to _not_ murder anyone. Losing that constant gave Frank a new appreciation for it.

So, working for Murdock, or death. Pros of death: not working for Murdock. Cons: being dead.

“I’ll work for you,” his mouth announces before his brain has completely warmed up to the idea. The pros and cons list he’d started had ‘not being dead’ in the pro column, but that was it.

But apparently that’s enough to pass as sincerity, since Murdock pulls back just enough, but his breath is still hot at the crook of Frank’s neck. “Good,” he says, and Frank can feel the shape of a smile in the way he says it.

\---

More than a few times, Frank had wondered how Murdock was even alive. But he hadn’t put genuine effort into trying to kill him before.

Murdock can hear a safety clicking off from three blocks away. He’s uncannily aware of when Frank’s thought’s start taking a more scenic route that involves fantasies of strangulation or garroting. He’s so damn _fast_. He can smell every poison Frank’s ever heard of.

He also pays _very_ well, which is annoying. Frank could probably just try and get the FBI involved and let it all come crashing down, but if this Murdock-Kingpin has the same knack for bouncing back that Fisk did, it wouldn’t be worth it. The ecosystem is currently stable, and it’s not Frank’s place to disrupt it.

Not stable enough, though, Frank realizes when he wakes up after a dream that involves Murdock’s hands clawing up his back and his mouth open in a perfect _O_.

Apparently, a Murdock that kills is still a fine piece of ass in Frank’s book. Even if the murders are unjust and inhumane. Human brains are ridiculous. Frank reminds himself to check and see if in this reality, lobotomies are safe.

(They aren’t.)

\---

“I’m coming with you,” Murdock announces for the next mark – some stuffy Italian politician with a knack for union busting and magically disappearing prostitutes. “I want to kill him. But his personal guard is former members of the Hand. I need you to take them out so that I can get close.”

“And why can’t I just _also_ take him out?” Frank asks as he thumbs through the file.

“Gotta be a blade. It’s a magic thing,” Murdock says, like it’s not a big deal, which it apparently isn’t in this world. “I know you said you’ve trained with knives, but not like I have.”

“You can’t just say ‘it’s a magic thing’ and leave it,” Frank grumbles.

“Fine, he’s protected by a spell that can only be broken by a blade tempered in dragonfire and blessed by a black sky, and four of those blades currently exist, two of which belong to me.”

Frank tries to find two brain cells willing to be shocked by this information, but the most he can muster is one, and even that surprise is halfhearted at best.

“So you do the magic stuff, too? I know you’re more pro-Hand than my Murdock, but I didn’t realize it was that much.”

Murdock is generally far too trusting of Frank, probably because he knows that Frank can’t figure out how to kill him. Any time Murdock casually throws out information about himself, Frank is almost exasperated. But now, when Murdock shrugs in a way that’s nearly _cavalier_ , he feels irritation at Murdock’s secrecy.

It’s not his place to ask, though. So he doesn’t.

\---

Murdock appears out of nowhere and rams the blade through the squat man’s heart. Every window in a mile radius shatters, but all Frank can think is that he’s so damn _hot_.

\---

Frank hasn’t gotten laid since landing in this reality, which he’s taken to calling Planet B.

He didn’t expect to break that streak with a man, and he didn’t expect to break it with Planet B’s Matt Murdock.

But Murdock meets Frank at their predetermined rendezvous point – a small hotel in downtown Florence – and immediately hits Frank with a disarming smile. “You _liked_ that.”

“It is what I’m good at,” Frank replies absently. Murdock leans closer.

“You liked _me_ doing _that_.”

And really, “liked” was an exaggeration. It’s more that Frank hated it so much that he found it incredibly hot. God he wishes Planet B was big on lobotomies. But altar boy Matt Murdock, the man who bled self-righteousness and liked to flip Frank off from the moral high ground, ending the life of a horrible little man willing to resort to dark magic just to keep himself alive longer? Hot. Even though his conscious brain is pretty good at processing Planet B’s Murdock as a completely different person from Planet A’s Murdock, his dick hasn’t gotten the memo.

“I like a lot of things,” Frank hedges, hyperaware of the predatory edge to Murdock’s grin.

“You like _your Murdock_ ,” Murdock continues, ruthlessly. “You wish I was him. Does he know about your little crush?”

Frank swings his bag around his shoulder and goes to leave, but Murdock’s hand is on his shoulder, and then his nose is in Frank’s neck, and then they’re stumbling towards the hotel bed as Murdock literally rips Frank’s shirt off.

“I don’t – with men,” Frank groans as he lands on the bed with a rather pitiful bounce.

Murdock freezes, head tilted. “You mean you _didn’t_. But you’ve _wanted_ to, haven’t you? And you’d like to at least _try._ ”

After a moment, Frank nods, and the grin returns to Murdock’s face. “Lovely.”

It’s the closest to Matt Murdock – the Matt Murdock he’s carried a torch to another goddamn universe for – he’s ever going to get. And he’s apparently an idiot more willing to work for a man who represents everything he hates than try his luck as a shell necklace salesman – apparently he’s also enough of an idiot to _sleep with_ the man who represents everything he hates.

He wonders, suddenly, how Murdock is processing this. “Why – “ he starts, before Murdock drops his slacks and takes his underwear with them. His question cuts into a soft sound somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

“I do as I please, Castle,” Murdock says, before kindly ducking down to get Frank’s shoes off. “Fucking is more fun than therapy, and you look like a damn good lay.”

It’s barely even dirty talk, but Frank’s cock jerks enough to leave Frank breathless. “ _God_ – you don’t even _like_ me, though,” he manages to get out as he struggles with his belt.

“Don’t like most people I have sex with, don’t take it personally,” Murdock mutters, and then he makes short work of Frank’s belt and his pants. “I _do_ like you, in a way,” he adds on, and Frank makes a pathetic choking sound as Murdock grabs Frank by the hips and pulls him down so that his hips are parallel with the edge of the bed. “I like that you keep expecting me to be someone I’m not.”

And then Murdock’s mouth is on his cock, and it’s the most spectacular thing Frank has ever witnessed.

Murdock goes slowly at first, getting Frank used to the feeling of the inside of his mouth. Frank reaches down to grab at Murdock’s hair, but Murdock bats his hands away and pulls his mouth off. “Keep your hands at your sides or I’ll chop them off. Now tell me about how you’re imagining that I’m your Murdock.”

He closes his mouth around Frank’s cock again, and Frank manages to keep his hands still even as his hips buck just a bit. “He’s – he’s so damn _Catholic_ – all of that ridiculous guilt.” Murdock moves a little bit deeper, and Frank can feel the delicate walls of his throat flutter around the head of his cock. “He won’t kill, he thinks it’s the sort of thing you just can’t come back from. I don’t know if he’s right or not.” Murdock chuckles a bit at that, and the reverberations make Frank’s balls tense up. “So I’ve always been off his radar, you know, sexually. I don’t even know why I wanna be _on_ his radar so bad.”

At that, Murdock pulls his mouth off again, and Frank lets out a heaving breath. “Because you’ve got a drive to corrupt beautiful things,” he provides with a grin. “I think I’m better than you because of my silly moral code, but you know it’s wrong even if you think it’s remarkable, and you want to see that code destroyed the same way that we like to watch car crashes or bad pornography. Because we know that the natural order of things is the chaos of a car crash or the awkward fumbling of bad pornography.”

_“God,”_ Frank moans as Murdock returns to his dick sucking. “No, he’s – he’s innocent. I don’t want to _corrupt him._ ” Though if his Murdock can swallow the way this Murdock can, he may have to reconsider the corruption plan if he ever makes it back to Planet A.

Just as his hips are bucking in little _nngh-nngh-nngh_ motions, Murdock pulls off, and Frank thinks he might just cry.

“Well it _could_ just be sheer sexual magnetism,” Murdock says with a little eyelash flutter, “but that’s not nearly as interesting. There’s lube in the bedside table, toss it here.”

Frank doesn’t question the order, or why there was lube in the _hotel_ bedside table, and Murdock reaches behind himself to tease at his own hole.

“I don’t want to scare you off the big wide world of gay sex, because I think we could have a lot of fun if you want to explore, so tell me if it’s getting to be too much for you.” How considerate, Frank thinks dazedly, mesmerized as Murdock’s fingers disappear one by one into his ass. He considers reaching out but – no. Not this time. No. “Now, tell me about how you want to love _your_ Murdock.”

“I want to – I don’t even know what I want to do with him,” Frank whispers, still transfixed. Murdock’s at three fingers, arching his back. His cock – which is ridiculously perfect – is weeping precum and without thinking, Frank reaches forward to smear some of it down Murdock’s shaft. He stutters slightly in his movements, and Frank continues. “I want to show him that he’s just as much of an animal as the rest of us. I want to make him beg to be filled, beg to get off.”

“ _How_?” Murdock demands, and under his voice there’s nearly a growl.

“I would fuck him everywhere he’d let me – on his desk at his firm, on the rooftops of Manhattan, in his kitchen, in an elevator, anywhere we could easily be caught so that everyone would kn-know that Matthew Murdock is just a beast like anyone else. I’d get him to like it so much that he’d beg for more. Beg for my cock, no matter who was watching. Keep him stretched and open and ready all the time. Oh _god –_ “

Four fingers now, and Frank needs his dick to be _in_ something pronto. In one fluid motion, Murdock pulls his hand away and jerks forward, sinking to the base of Frank’s cock in a single fluid motion. For a moment it’s silent as both of them have the breath knocked out of them, and then Frank gets his shit together and digs his feet onto the ground and thrusts himself somehow even further into Murdock, whose palms land on Franks shoulders.

Murdock rolls his hips, and it’s like little jolts of electricity all over Frank’s body. “Keep talking,” Murdock demands. “Tell me more about getting off on having me always ready – and for the love of god, _fuck_ me, you animal.”

Frank reaches down to grab Murdocks hips, and pulls himself out just enough that when he drives himself back in again fully, Murdock lets out a little gasp.

“Keep you stretched and lubed and ready to go. God, keep you plugged up with some of _me_ inside you, I know your super senses can smell sex, I don’t want you to think of anything else at all. I want you to lose your job because you love being fucked too damn much, and gossip rags to talk about how you’re too sex-crazy to be an effective attorney.” He punctuates each statement with a long and slow thrust, interspersed with smaller ones, and one of Murdock’s hands darts back to run up and down his own dick, which looks like it could give any moment.

“Wanna take you from smooth talking altar boy to a killing animal, so familiar with death and fucking, the only things our ancestors ever thought about.” More, bigger thrusts. Further out, and further back in, and Murdock is bouncing up and down to meet him, more precum coming out with nearly every thrust.

“ _God, Frank,”_ Murdock grunts, squeezing his ass just enough that Frank can’t hold on any more. He doesn’t make a sound as he feels himself spill _inside_ of Murdock, and isn’t that a nice thought?

Mere moments later, Murdock follows, and pale liquid splashes on his chest before Murdock leans forward and Frank’s dick is released with a wet _pop._

“I’m not your Murdock,” Murdock hisses as he collapses on the bed next to Frank. “You _hate_ me and I don’t want you to forget that. But keep that up, and I may have to give you a promotion.”

\---

When Frank wakes up the next morning, there’s a note, and another file with another mob boss getting prominent enough that he poses a threat to Murdock’s small yet mighty empire.

_Can’t go with you on this one, but hope you think of me the whole time._

And underneath the (honestly, terrible) handwriting:

_XOXO_

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! Here's dimension-hopping Frank Castle eventually having hatesex with Spider-Gwen's Matt Murderdock. Most of my comics knowledge was dredged up from a few years back but I don't think I got anything flagrantly wrong. I've also only read the first few Spider-Gwens so I took some liberties with Murderdock's general backstory, and Earth-65 in general.
> 
> These prompts were all fun, and definitely pushed me out of my general comfort zone! Thank you so much!


End file.
